A Touch of Frost

Wednesday day shift (I)

The briefing room at Demon Police Station was looking very much less than its best. Like most of the assembled police officers, it was suffering from the effects of the previous night’s party. Empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays were everywhere on chairs, on window ledges, and dotted around the floor. In one corner a waste-paper bin had been knocked over, spilling its contents screwed-up crisp packets, half-eaten sandwiches, and assorted rubbish into a sticky, spreading puddle of lager.

There were a dozen or so police officers present, both uniform and plain clothed some looking decidedly fragile. Most were sipping coffee from plastic cups, and the subdued burble of conversation was mainly about hangovers, upset stomachs, and the party.

Detective Inspector Allen stood outside in the corridor watching the second hand of his watch inching its way toward zero hour. Punctuality was his keyword, and he would not enter the briefing room until 9 o’clock on the dot. Thirty seconds to go. He was annoyed to note that Frost hadn’t shown up yet, although that bearded ex-inspector was there, sitting by himself in the corner and trying to look superior to everyone else.

Allen reached for the door handle. The minute hand of the wall clock quivered, then clunked up the hour. He flung open the door and swept in.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.”

He climbed up on to the raised dais where Detective Sergeant Ingram was in attendance with all the various files and roneoed orders laid out on the table. Behind the table was the wall map, and pinned on the blackboard next to it were photographs of the five previous rape victims, exactly as the inspector had requested.

The room went quiet. Allen paused, surveying the green-tinged faces, then his nose wrinkled. The room reeked of flat beer and stale cigar smoke. The inspector didn’t smoke and wouldn’t tolerate any of his subordinates indulging the habit in his presence. “This room stinks,” he snapped. “Someone open a window.”

Collier scrambled up from his chair and eased open one of the windows a fraction.

“I said open it!” bellowed Allen. “Fresh air won’t kill you.”

Collier flung the window open to its fullest extent, and the cold air came roaring in. The assembly shivered, which made Allen smirk with satisfaction. He had noticed a few barely stifled yawns as he entered. That should keep the bastards alert, he thought. A final scan of the room for the dirty mac and the maroon scarf. “Mr. Frost not graced us with his presence? Then we’ll start without him.”

He rocked gently on the balls of his feet, his eyes travelling from face to face, making certain he had everyone’s full attention. “Those of you who were at Mr. Harrison’s farewell party will know that our old friend, the so-called “Hooded Terror”, struck again last night. As we hadn’t heard from him for six months, I’m sure we were all hoping that he’d retired or had some dreadful accident with a carving knife that would put an end to his raping career, but it seems he was just biding his time. Last night he attacked his sixth victim, a woman by the name of Paula Grey who works at The Coconut Grove where she does a striptease act under the billing of Paula the Naughty Schoolgirl.”

Someone sniggered. Allen’s cold eyes searched the room for the offender. “Have I said something funny?” He waited in case someone dared to answer, then went on. “I said her name is Paula Grey, but she is also known as Nellie Drake, Sadie Kendal, and Molly Partick, and under each of these has had the odd conviction for soliciting for offering gentlemen the use of her body in exchange for a small fee. That, however, is by the way. She was not soliciting last night. She was proceeding in a lawful manner from her home to her place of employment.

‘like Mr. Frost, it would seem that punctuality is not her strongest point. On several previous occasions she had been late for her spot, and her boss, nature’s own gentleman, Harry Baskin, had warned her that if she was late one more time she would be for the chop. Last night she overslept, waking up at 10.35. She was due to go on at The Coconut Grove at 11.15. In order to save time, she slapped on her stage make-up, put on her stage clothes, which were those of a schoolgirl, and took the shortcut through Denton Woods. As I have so often pointed out to you, ladies and gentlemen, the shortest way is not always the quickest.”

He took a pointer from the table and turned to the wall map. “She departed from her flat in Forest View at approximately 10.50. She went down this road, turned into the woods, then took this path.” The pointer scraped the map as it traced her route.

“She left the main path here and cut down this little side route, which should have brought her back to the main road. But she never made it.”

From the back of the room the rasp of a match being struck. Allen froze. Without turning around, he said, “I hope no-one intends smoking during my briefing.” The sound of a match hastily blown out. He relaxed and continued. “She had reached this point here, where the path curves, and that was where the bastard was waiting for her. Exactly the same tactics as he employed with all the rest. The cloth chucked over her head, the hands around her throat to semi-strangle her into unconsciousness. Her attacker then dragged her from the path, behind some bushes, about here’ the pointer jabbed the map ‘where he stripped her down to her stockings. But at this point, to everyone’s surprise, including his victim’s, he deviated from his usual pattern. He didn’t rape her. Instead, he viciously kicked and punched her, breaking her nose, her jaw, and some ribs.

“At five minutes to one this morning, Sergeant Wells received a telephone message from an anonymous male caller reporting the body of a girl in the woods. We don’t know who this man was, but we want to trace him. This call was followed up by Constables Simms and Jordan in Charlie Alpha. They were later joined by Mr. Frost and Inspector

… I do beg his pardon… Constable Webster, our refugee from Braybridge District.” He smirked as Webster smouldered, and waited for the laughter to subside so he could continue.

As he turned back to the map he heard the door to the briefing room open and close. Obviously Frost trying to sneak in unseen. “So kind of you to grace us with your presence,” he began sarcastically, but he was horrified to hear the scraping of chairs as everyone rose and sprang to attention. “So sorry, Superintendent,” he said hastily. “I thought it was Mr. Frost.”

Mullett, in a mint-condition uniform straight from the tailor’s, graciously nodded his acceptance of the apology, then smiled and waved a hand for everyone to sit. He then sat in one of the chairs in the back row, folded his arms, and assumed an expression of intense concentration. “Please carry on, Inspector.”

“I spoke to the victim in the hospital,” Allen well ton “As in the case of all the previous victims, she could tell me absolutely nothing about her attacker. I’m hoping to question her further today when the surgeons have patched her up, but the current position is that six women have been attacked and we do not have even the vaguest description of the rapist. All we know from semen samples is that his blood group is type O, a group shared by more than forty-four percent of the male population.”

The briefing room door was flung back on its hinges and a late comer lurched in, managing to kick over an empty lager tin which rolled down the aisle and bounced up on to the dais, only halting when it touched Allen’s shoe. Delicately, the inspector pushed it to one side with his toe. He didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. There was no doubt this time who the newcomer was. “Good morning, Mr. Frost. I’m afraid we had to start without you.”

“That’s all right,” said Frost grandly. “I completely forgot about this bloody meeting. It won’t take long, will it? I’ve got a post-mortem at ten.” He shivered. “It’s a bit nippy in here.” He slammed shut the open window, flopped into a chair in the back row, and lit up a cigarette.

Allen’s eyes glinted. A chance to cut Frost down to size in front of the Superintendent. “I don’t like people smoking during my briefing sessions, Mr. Frost.”

“That’s all right,” beamed Frost, the cigarette waggling in his mouth. “I don’t like people jabbering away while I’m smoking, but I put up with it.” The burst of laughter that followed was withered to silence by the ice of Allen’s expression. Grinning broadly, Frost puffed away at his cigarette, making as much smoke as possible. He turned to share the joke with the person sitting next to him, and to his horror it was Mullett, all immaculate uniform, gleaming buttons, and wintry disapproval. “A word with you afterward, Inspector,” he hissed.

“Yes, Super, of course,” muttered Frost, wriggling uneasily in his chair and wishing he’d chosen somewhere else to sit.

Allen’s smirk tightened. Now to rub salt into Frost’s raw wound. “By the time I arrived on the scene the ambulance was taking the victim to hospital. Mr. Frost, who’d seen her, told me she was fifteen years old. During her short ambulance ride she must have aged twenty-three years, because when I saw her in hospital she was thirty-eight. I’m not sure how anyone could have made such a mistake, but perhaps the inspector would care to explain.” He moved back, extending an open hand, inviting Frost to take the stage.

Frost’s fixed smile clearly said, “You bastard!” but he kept his face impassive as he ambled up and leaned against the table, his eyes half closed against the smoke of his cigarette.

“As Mr. Allen has told you, I made a real right burke of myself last night not for the first time, and certainly not the last. We’d just come from a house where a fifteen-year-old kid called Karen Dawson was missing. She hadn’t been seen since she left school yesterday lunch time. The woman in the woods was stark naked. Her face was smashed in and smothered with blood from where the bastard had booted her. Scattered around her were articles of school uniform, so I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I shouldn’t have made such a stupid bloody mistake, but I did.”

He paused, took the butt end from his mouth and used it to light another cigarette. “The scene when we got there? As I’ve said, the poor cow was naked, except for stockings. She was lying on her back, her clothes scattered on the grass around her where they’d been torn off. There was also a carrier bag which contained her non-working clothes and a purse. That’s really all I can tell you.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Allen, moving back to the stage. Frost spotted an empty chair in the front row and sat down. It was the farthest from Mullett he could get.

“Any questions?” asked Allen.

A plainclothes man in the centre row raised his hand. “Any idea why this one wasn’t raped, sir?”

Allen nodded. “I formed a theory about that.” He pointed to the five photographs pinned on the blackboard.

“These are the first five rape victims. Number one, Peggy Leyton, nineteen, a student nurse, raped on April 4th while taking a shortcut across the golf links. Number two, Sarah Finch, eighteen, an office worker, raped on April 5th, also on the golf links. Next we have victims three and four, Genette Scott, unemployed, aged twenty, but looks a lot younger, and Kate Brown, a student, also twenty. Both were attacked and raped in Meads Park, April 20th and 21st. Last, we have Linda Alwood, a shop assistant, aged nineteen, raped May 2nd on a piece of waste ground near the Denton Factory Estate. All these attacks took place some eight miles from Denton Woods, but they each have one thing in common. The victims were all very young and in some cases looked a lot younger than their age. My theory, ladies and gentlemen, is that the Demon “Hooded Terror” likes fresh, young meat. He can only make it with young birds. When he saw Paula Grey prancing through the trees in her schoolgirl clothes, he must have thought he’d hit the jackpot with a nice, tender young virgin, but when he found he’d got an old boiling fowl he did his nut. Old women are a turnoff to him.”

Webster, in his corner seat, nodded. Allen’s theory made a lot of sense. You might hate him as a man, but he was a damn good police officer. He sneaked a look at Frost, lolling in his front row chair, looking as if he’d spent the night in the gutter. There was no comparison between the two men. One was a policeman, the other was rubbish.

Allen bent down and picked up a bundle of clothes which he dumped on the table. “These are the clothes the girl was wearing prior to the attack.” He bent again and added a white plastic carrier bag to the pile. “This is the bag she was carrying. We’ve had photographs taken of a model of similar appearance to Paula Grey, dressed in this clothing and carrying this bag. You’ll each be given a copy. I want every house in the vicinity of Forest View and on the way to the woods to be called on. I want every single resident to be shown the photograph. Did they see a girl wearing these clothes last night? I’m sure a well-developed, thirty-eight-year-old woman wearing school clothes must have caught someone’s eye. Did they see her? Did they see anyone following her or taking an interest in her? Did they see any strangers loitering? Has anyone going through the woods during the past week or so seen a man lurking, acting strangely? Has any woman been assaulted and not told us? A thorough investigation, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out the questions you should ask. All witnesses, even those wha only think they might have seen something, are to be brought to the station so I can question them personally. Understood?”

A few grunts of confirmation.

“I’m splitting you up into teams. Sergeant Ingram will give you details as you leave. Team A will be knocking at doors, asking questions, Team B will be doing an inch-by-inch search of the area of last night’s attack, and Team C will be locating, and bringing in for questioning, all known sexual offenders in the area even those who were completely eliminated from our previous inquiries. Any questions?”

He looked around expectantly, but no-one had anything to ask. “Right.

Off you go.”

They were shuffling through the door, passing Ingram, who handed them their duty allocation briefing sheets, when Allen suddenly barked, “Hold it, everyone.” They all stopped and turned, except for Frost, who ha red it off to his own office. Allen had completely forgotten Mr. Mullett, seated in solitary state in the back row. “Did you want to address the teams, sir?”

Mullett stood and showed his whiter-than-white teeth. “Only to say “Good luck everyone”,” he boomed, just like a vicar starting off the whist drive.

They all clattered out, clutching their roneoed briefing notes and duty schedules. Methodically, Allen replaced his notes back into the folder and waited as Ingram unpinned the photographs from the wall board. Mullett glided over. “An excellent briefing, Inspector. A model for us all.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Allen, suspicious of the Superintendent’s motives. He took the photographs from

Ingram and dismissed the sergeant with a curt nod, then made great play of consulting his watch. “Did you want to see me, sir? I’ve got rather a tight schedule. The press will be screaming blue murder when they hear about last night’s little shindig in the woods “Hooded Terror Strikes Again… Police have no clues”.”

Mullett nodded sympathetically as if distancing himself from any criticism that might be levelled against the police. “Don’t talk to me about the press, Inspector. My phone’s been ringing nonstop about this wretched hit-and-run business… the press, the Chief Constable

… even Sir Charles Miller himself.” He looked at Allen, hoping that the recital of this all-star cast would impress him.

Allen again looked pointedly at his watch. “What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?”

The Superintendent adjusted his gaze to a spot a few inches above the inspector’s head. “What cases are you working on at the moment?”

Allen’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t intend dumping anything else on my plate, sir. I’ll be working all the hours God sends on this rape investigation and there’s going to be no time for anything else.”

“I fully appreciate that,” said Mullett, twisting his neck to look at the large-scale wall map, avoiding having to look the detective inspector in the eye. “I want you to hand the rape case over to Frost.”

Allen stared at Mullett as if he were mad. “Over my dead body!”

“Only for a few days, Inspector.”

“Not even for a few minutes and that’s just how long it would take Frost to sod everything up.” In his agitation he began to stride up and down, pounding his palm with his fist. “Why, sir? Please tell me why!”

Mullett raised a placating hand. “I’ve got another case for you one that requires all your skill, tact, and expertise.”

“Oh yes?” said Allen warily, knowing that it would be a real stinker.

“Do you know anything about this hit-and-run?”

“Only that Roger Miller was involved.”

“That isn’t certain. He claims he wasn’t driving, that his car had been stolen.”

Allen straightened the papers inside the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Balls!” he said bluntly.

Mullett, who could never stomach crudity, winced. “His father, Sir Charles Miller, is convinced of his son’s innocence.”

“I. hardly think Sir Charles is that stupid, sir.”

Pulling a chair forward, Mullett sat down after hitching his trousers legs to preserve the lethal edge of their creases. “This is all top-level stuff, Allen. Sir Charles phoned the Chief Constable this morning, and, as a result of that call, the Chief Constable phoned me at my home. If this case goes to court, Sir Charles intends to engage a top-flight QC

“Rich man’s privilege,” sniffed Allen.

“Precisely, Inspector. But a good QC would tear a badly prepared case to ribbons, and that would reflect badly on this division. I do not intend for that to happen.”. “If we get a good prosecuting counsel, then it won’t happen,” said Allen.

“All right,” said Mullett, “I’ll put my cards on the table. There’s a slim chance that Roger Miller is telling the truth and that his car was stolen. If we can prove that he’s innocent, it would buy us a lot of goodwill with Sir Charles. He’s always been anti police what a feather in our caps if we could turn this man our way.”

“But supposing our investigation proved his son to be guilty?” asked Allen.

“Then at least we’d go to court with a watertight case. In either event the investigating officer would come out of the affair with credit.”

“Would he?” asked Allen shrewdly. “With respect, sir, you’re being naive. This case is a political hot potato. Sir Charles Miller isn’t short of enemies, also in very high places. Feelings are bound to be running high… a poor old boy knocked down and killed by a rich man’s son. If we clear Roger, there’ll be screams of “Police cover up,” and if we prove him guilty, well, it’s no secret that Sir Charles can be a vindictive swine when he likes. He’d use every dirty trick to get back at the man who nailed his beloved boy. Each way we lose, so I’m having no part of it.”

Mullett sucked in his cheeks. It was time to exert his authority. “What you want, or don’t want, doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. By arrangement with the Chief Constable, Sir Charles Miller is calling here this morning. He has been promised that a senior officer will carry out this investigation, and that means you. I can’t give it to a rank lower than inspector.”

Sir Charles calling here this morning! thought Allen. So that’s why the virgin uniform has come out of mothballs. “You don’t have to give it to a rank lower than inspector. Give it to Frost.”

A scornful laugh. “Frost? On a case as delicate as this?”

Allen moved nearer to the Superintendent and lowered his voice. “Consider this, sir. If there’s got to be a loser, Frost is the ideal man.” He paused, then added significantly, “He’s the one we can spare the most.”

Mullett chewed this over and liked the taste. A chance of getting rid of the troublesome Frost. It was tempting. Very tempting. But how could he possibly introduce that scarecrow to Sir Charles and claim he was the best they had. “No way Inspector. No way at all. I’m sorry. I’m ordering you to do it.”

Allen quietly produced the trump card he had been holding back for such an emergency. “You know, sir, if the story were leaked to the press that a senior officer was taken off a serious rape case in order to try and clear an MP’s spoiled brat of a son, it could be very nasty. Very nasty indeed.”

Mullett looked at Allen. Allen looked at Mullett. Mullett’s look said, “You wouldn’t dare’, Allen’s said, “Just try me.”

The Superintendent was the first to lower his gaze. He stood up and started to stride around the room, scratching his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger. He stopped as if struck by a brilliant thought and turned slowly to the inspector. “Come to think of it, Allen, Frost would be the ideal choice. He’s got bags of local knowledge, he’s got, er…” He paused because he had run out of things to say in Frost’s favour.

“He’s got the George Cross,” said Allen.

The George Cross! Incredible but true. The previous year Frost had blundered into a hostage situation at Bennington’s Bank, where an armed robber, high on drugs, was holding a gun on a woman and her baby. Believing the man was bluffing, Frost had tried to take the gun away, getting himself shot in the face for his pains but managing to overpower the robber in the process. For this he was awarded the George Cross, the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross. Frost rarely spoke about it, and the medal was jumbled up with other debris in one of the drawers of his untidy desk. But it would very much impress Sir Charles, thought Mullett…! “Yes, Sir Charles, one of my best men he’s got the George Cross, you know.” He smiled at Allen. “Yes, Frost is definitely the best man for this job.”

Allen took his leave hurriedly before Mullett changed his mind. Mullett dashed back to his office and told Miss Smith to get out the best coffee cups. Only the best was good enough for Sir Charles Miller.

Frost was at his desk, rummaging through mounds of paper like a housewife searching for bargains at a jumble sale. He didn’t find any bargains, only the overtime returns and the crime statistics which should have gone off the previous night. He piled them on top of the other papers in his in tray. Somehow or other he would have to find time to do them. He picked up the latest burglary report, and skimmed through it, ready to lay it to rest with all the others in the filing cabinet.

Householder’s name: Lil Carey (Mrs)

Address: 26 Sunford Road, Demon

Scene of crime (if different from address above): As above. list of goods (not money) taken (with approx. value): Nil

Value of cash taken: 79

At first glance it appeared little different from all the others.

A quick in-and-out job with seventy-nine pounds in cash being taken. The thieves always took cash it was instantly negotiable, it couldn’t be traced and it made the task of the police almost impossible. Frost sniffed. He knew Lil Carey. She was an unregistered money lender, lending out small sums of money, usually to housewives, at exorbitant interest rates. She’d never miss seventy-nine pounds. He wished the thieves had got away with more. But then he realized the had been scratched through by the reporting officer and the word ‘sovereigns’ added. Seventy-nine sovereigns! Frost wasn’t sure of the current rate for sovereigns, but that quantity must surely be worth much more than four thousand pounds for the gold content alone; even more if they were Victorian and in mint condition. He stuffed the report in his pocket. They would call on old mother Carey this morning without fail.

The door was kicked open and Webster entered with the two cups of tea, his expression making it quite clear how much he relished being asked to perform these menial tasks.

“Thanks, son,” muttered Frost, who had learned that it was best to ignore the constable’s repertoire of frowns, scowls, and grimaces. He disturbed the mud of sugar with his ballpoint pen and took a sip. “Tastes like cat’s pee.” He swivelled in his chair. “Something important we had to do this morning. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was.”

“The dead man in the toilets. You had to break the news.”

“That was it!” exclaimed Frost.

“Mr. Dawson phoned,” Webster told him.

“Dawson?” Frost screwed up his face. “Who’s he?”

“The father of the missing schoolgirl. He wanted to know if there was any news. I told him we’d circulated her description.”

Frost nodded. “Ah yes. Young, clean-cut, clean-shaven Karen. If she doesn’t turn up soon, I’ll have to try and sneak a chat with the mother without the father being present. There are one or two things about Karen that don’t quite add up.” His attention was caught by a note in his own writing which he had circled in red as important.

He studied it with a puzzled frown. “PM 10.00? We’re not expecting Mrs. Thatcher are we?”

“The post-mortem,” explained Webster wearily.

Frost tipped the remainder of his tea into the waste bin and reached for his mac. “Life is one round of constant pleasure. Come on, son, we mustn’t be late.”

There was a brisk knock at the door. “Not today, thank you,” called Frost.

The door opened and Mullett walked in. His expression didn’t indicate that his life was one round of constant pleasure. Frost quickly pulled the crime statistics from his in-tray and put them in the centre of his desk as if he were working on them. “Sorry, Super. Didn’t know it was you.”

Mullett gazed stiffly around the room. What a shambles the place was. Piles of paper everywhere, even on the window ledge, where the piles were held down by unwashed teacups. There were even salted peanuts and bits of potato crisp dotted around the floor. “This office is a mess, Inspector. An utter and disgusting mess!”

“We were just about to tidy it up as you knocked, sir,” lied Frost cheerfully. “Shift the muck off that chair, son, so the Super can sit down.”

Webster removed the dog-eared stack of files, looked for somewhere to put them, then decided his own desk top was the only free space. He offered the chair to the Superintendent who declined it with a disdainful sniff. He wasn’t going to risk his brand-new uniform on that. His eye caught sight of the overtime returns in Frost’s in-tray. “Some talk of the men not getting their overtime payments for last month, Frost.”

“Yes,” agreed Frost. “It’s that bloody computer. It’s always going wrong.” He stared Mullett out, then remembered the busy morning he had planned. “Have you just come in to give me a bollocking, sir, or is it something important? I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. They’re filleting Ben Cornish down at the morgue in half an hour.”

“I’ve something more important for you than that,” snapped Mullett. “Roger Miller… the hit-and-run. I’m putting you in charge of the investigation.”

“Right, Super,” said Frost. “I’ll have the little bastard put away for you, don’t you worry.”

Mullett gritted his teeth and wished he hadn’t let Allen talk him into this. “You don’t understand, Frost,” he said, and told him just what was expected of him.

Sergeant Johnson, the duty station sergeant for the day shift, had been down to the cells to check on the occupants. He was irritated to find that Frost had let Wally Peters stay the night, with the inevitable result. The cell was being hosed down now.

“Mr. Frost!” he yelled sternly as Webster and the inspector cut across the lobby on their way to the car park.

“Yes, Johnny?” called Frost from the door.

“We’ve got a friend of yours downstairs. He’s piddling all over the floor and stinking the place out.”

Frost’s face creased in mock perplexity. “What is Mr. Mullett doing down there?” he asked.